


Yellowed Frames

by inkedinserendipity



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, and will maybe have post-ending things when SoG gets itself online completely, companion fic, like three months, which will be, will jump around from idea to idea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6760159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes on behind the scenes while those judgments are being doled out? Well, everything - angst, goofiness, fluff, feels. </p><p>(Collection of drabbles related to Silhouettes of Gold.)</p><p>Find me on tumblr at inkedinserendipity.tumblr.com!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This first chapter was the original Chapter Five of Silhouettes of Gold. While this one can be read as a standalone, the rest probably won't make much sense without background knowledge. Chronologically, it goes between Chapters Four and Five of SoG. This was taken out because it doesn't do too much to advance the plot and I'd love to start getting to when stuff gets SERIOUS in capital letters, but it's important in that it sets up some future conflicts. Also because it's cute.

The first snow of winter coats Mt. Ebott with a thin sheen of ice and snow, dense enough to make glasses and car windows and satellite dishes sparkle beautifully in the sun’s light. The sun glints off stark treetops. For this moment, the world is peacefully quiet, free of birdsong and crickets - just the distant sound of calling pedestrians and older students taking detours on their way home from school, gossiping and singing to one another. 

Toriel rests for a moment on the sidewalk, tilting her face toward the sun. Despite the cold, it fills her face with warmth. She can’t look directly at it, but even with her eyes closed the star is still as beautiful as the first time she saw it set. 

She shoulders her handbag and stands for a moment on the sidewalk, heedless of the cars trickling past, enjoying the brisk winter air on her face. Then excited bootprints crunch the snow around her and snap her out of her reverie. 

“Miss Toriel!” a familiar voice calls. “Miss Toriel! Can you hear me? Are you sleeping?” The voice drops dramatically. “Oh no, human, is she napping? My brother is wearing off on her! We must save her Soul from his odious slime!!!”

With a smile stretching across her face, Toriel opens her eyes. Papyrus waves at her, and she waves back. The ice splinters beneath her feet as she walks toward him. He stands like a sentinel in the sidewalk of her house, protecting her windows from the bitter air. “Hello, Papyrus. It is good to see you. And hello, my child! What are you two doing outside in such cold?”

Frisk beams and sprints toward her, then launches themself at her chest for a massive hug that nearly sends them both pinwheeling into a snowdrift. “Hi, mom!” they chirp. “We’re making puzzles!”

“Yes!” Papyrus adds, still frantically waving hello. He’s wearing four pairs of gloves, each a clashing shade of red. “Very challenging puzzles, devised by Frisk and myself, the great Papyrus! You are sure to be challenged on your way home, Miss Toriel. Because, in order to pass, you must solve this puzzle!”

Toriel grins, gently setting Frisk on the snow. “What puzzle?” 

“See if you can devise the rules yourself! This is the first challenge, a creative extra task devised by myself and Frisk!”

Frisk points insistently in front of her feet, where there are numbers chipped into the ice freshly covering the walkway to her home. Then, with no further explanation, they latch onto Papyrus’s ulna and spider their way up to his skull.

“Hmm,” she says thoughtfully. Papyrus begins to vibrate with excitement. The vibration jostles Frisk’s hair against their skull and makes it fly away from their face. Toriel snickers at her child, looking at Frisk’s hair haloing around their head like branches, then dutifully turns her attention to the ground.

The snow around her is marked with little squares filled with numbers one through 10. Between the numbers 3 and 4 she can make out the faint imprint of bones, from the femur to the toes, stretched in a split. “I guess that I must jump from 1 to 10,” she informs Papyrus, solemnly studying the layout. 

He nods enthusiastically. Frisk sneezes as their hair goes up their nose. “And if you miss, then I will throw Frisk at you, and they will be very upset!” Frisk tugs the corners of their mouth down with their fingers, just to emphasize how upset they would be. 

The first block is near her right foot, so with a graceful step she plants her full weight over the large square. “Then let the puzzle begin,” she tells Papyrus, hefting her bag more securely over her shoulder. 

The first six numbers pass uneventfully, even if jumping between 3 and 4 requires the full extent of her agility and she nearly overbalances into a frosted tree. Then, standing on square 6, she looks around for 7, to find 8, 9 and 10 circled around her, with 7...back at the beginning. 

That square sits about ten of Toriel’s body-lengths away. The 7 looms up from the ground, challenging her to try to jump. Except she’s certainly not going to do that, because the number is entirely too far away for anyone (except maybe Undyne) to vault toward. 

For a long moment Toriel just stares at the square, completely at a loss. She wonders if Papyrus completed the challenge himself - and if so, how did he jump quite that far? Can he use his Soul magic on himself? - then discards the thought as currently irrelevant. Her face scrunches up in deliberation, then she turns to face Frisk. Both pairs of eyes watch her, fascinated. After several minutes of contemplation, she gets an idea.

“Frisk,” Toriel calls to her child, “I think you should cover Papyrus’s eyes for a moment.” 

Papyrus raises an eyebrow at Frisk. Frisk winks at Toriel and stick both hands in front of Papyrus’s eyesockets.

Papyrus yelps in surprise. He retaliates by prying a glove off his hand and using it to slap at Frisk’s palms. Frisk snatches their hand away and, as revenge, sticks their entire fist in one of his eyes. He screams a short “nyeh!” and stumbles backward, trying to prise their fist off his face. Frisk bursts out laughing as their seat flails awkwardly beneath them.

Toriel shamelessly uses their confusion to send a quick flame toward the 7, obliterating it entirely. The flame leaves a large patch of wet snow in its place, and she glares at it, but there’s not much she can do about that. Then, slipping off her shoe and wincing at the cold of the snow against her fur, she uses her big toe to hastily sketch a square and a 7 in the snow.

She glances up. Papyrus has successfully removed one of Frisk’s hands but has forgotten that humans possess two, the same number as skeletons have eyesockets, and Frisk giggles even more maniacally as they stick their other hand in the other eye. 

Toriel tries to shove her shoe back on her foot but it’s one of the lace-up kinds, so she decides to cut her losses and stuffs it back in her purse instead. She makes sure to re-zip it neatly and pulls down her skirt to cover her feet. 

“Thank you, Frisk,” she calls to her child once she finishes fiddling with the zipper. Frisk removes their hand from Papyrus’s face to let Papyrus look back up. “I have finished,” she tells them proudly. “How did I perform?”

Papyrus’s jaw nearly detaches. He looks between her and the 7 in the snow, then breaks into wild applause. “Impressive, Miss Toriel!” 

From atop his skull, Frisk gives her a huge thumbs-up. On the receiving end of all this praise, Toriel cannot help but dip in a slight curtsey, feeling quite proud of herself for her clever solution. 

“Come inside for some hot chocolate, great puzzle-makers?” she offers, holding the door open and silently hoping they don’t notice the awkward bulge in her purse or her sole freezing in the snow. 

“Hot chocolate!” Slight bewilderment forgotten, Papyrus bounds through the open door. Frisk clutches at his ear-holes for stability. 

Toriel steps inside the door after them, slipping off her other shoe and surreptitiously sinking her toe into the carpet to wipe off the leftover snow. 

Papyrus bounds over to the table, sets Frisk in their own seat, and pulls out a chair for himself. The two of them look at her with similar expressions of anticipation. 

Her kitchen hosts additional occupants, she notes, glancing around - Alphys is stirring spaghetti on the stovetop while Undyne holds her hand. Well, “stirs” is not quite the word, Toriel thinks, and neither is “holds”, as placid words never quite seem to fit around Undyne. “Beats” and “grips” work better. Alphys scrubs at the bottom of the pot with the spoon, a terrified expression on her face, while Undyne hops around her, hooting “Fas-ter! Fas-ter! Think of it like a...like a science experiment gone wrong! Kill that experiment, Al! _Kill it!_ ” 

Toriel will need to install two stoves in her kitchen, if only to make room for the raw spaghetti dangling from the countertop. 

Regardless, she chuckles to herself, moving to set her handbag on the sofa - but Sans is already sprawled on the cushions, one femur dangling over the open air and one slipper on the ground. She studies him, shaking her head, and wonders how he sleeps over all the racket Undyne and Alphys are creating. She sets her bag gently on the chair next to the sofa instead. 

“Is the spaghetti nearly prepared?” she asks the fish-lizard duo, who say “No!!!” and “please yes” at exactly the same time. Toriel muffles an undignified snort and slips on a fire-resistant apron, pouring water in a kettle to heat and spreading chocolate chips on a buttered pan. The smell of chocolate is a terrible complement to the acrid smell of burning raw spaghetti. Papyrus bounds to her side and intently watches the drink-making process, hoping to pick up on “Hot Tips!!” Frisk wanders over to the sofa and prods Sans’s shirt, watching with unfathomable glee as packets of ketchup spill out of his shirt with every poke.

Finally, after Alphys has beaten and stirred and burnt the spaghetti beyond all recognition, the chocolate melts and the kettle whistles and Toriel plops six mugs of hot chocolate on the table. 

“If you would like hot chocolate, yours is served,” she tells the duo and seats herself, nursing her own mug. 

Frisk prioritizes chocolate over condiments and seats themself across from her. Without breathing, they down half of their cup. When they set the half-empty cup back on the table, their face is covered in brown splotches of melted chocolate. They wipe their face on their hand, then lick the chocolate off their hand, completely unfazed by Toriel’s reproving glare.

“Hot chocolate!” Undyne enthuses, yanking out a chair and sitting so hard the wood protests. “Thanks, Toriel!” 

Alphys looks around the room for a moment before quietly shuffling to join Toriel. “T-thank you,” she says, sniffing at the cup, then takes a tentative sip. 

Papyrus, stirring the drink experimentally, finally looks around the table to spot the last mug. He looks around the table, visibly counting the monsters already seated, then slams his drink on the table. “Sans!” he hollers. “Sans, get your lazy bones to the table!” 

Suddenly, Sans appears behind him in the kitchen. He rubs one eye socket and grabs a handful of marshmallows from the cabinet, then reconsiders and grabs the whole bag. 

“I’m here, bro,” he says lazily, grinning wider than usual at Papyrus’s startled squeak. At Papyrus’s side, Undyne whips around to stare at the couch, then Sans, then back at the couch, and raises an eyebrow at Alphys, who shrugs and says nothing. Sans pokes Papyrus in the back of the skull, then winks at Toriel. “What, you think I’d miss out on Tori’s chocolate? What kind of monster do you think I am?” 

“A lazy one,” Papyrus sniffs. He pointedly turns his head away from Sans and delicately sips his hot chocolate, metaphorical nose in the air.

Sans regards his brother for a moment then shoves the bag toward Frisk, who stops it reflexively before the bag skids off the table. He smoothly ignores the startled glance they shoot his way and, with startling accuracy, Sans flicks a handful of marshmallow at Papyrus’s skull. It bounces off and splashes into his hot chocolate. “Whoops.” 

“Sans!” Papyrus yelps, staring indignantly at his brother.

“What?” 

“You hit me with marshmallows!”

“It was the kid, Pap.” Sans points toward the incriminating bag lying askew near Frisk’s elbow.

Frisk turns wide, innocent eyes on Papyrus, then points at Sans. Papyrus glares at his brother. Sans shrugs his shoulders, leaning his chair back on two legs to sip his hot chocolate and survey the room with one eye open. “Would I lie to you, Pap?”

“Yes!” says Papyrus immediately. 

Sans pouts. “Aww, Papyrus, why you have _tibia_ meanie?”

“SANS!” Papyrus shrieks, and throws a marshmallow in Sans’s nose. Undyne spends a solid three minutes congratulating him on his aim while Sans doubles over, groaning exaggeratedly and trying to extricate the ball of sugar from his skull.

 

Eventually, the smell of charred pasta distracts Alphys and Undyne into abandoning their empty mugs. Sans puts his head on the table and snores, a cup empty of hot chocolate and full of cold marshmallows at his elbow. Toriel retrieves the cups and places them in the portion of the sink not coated in blackened angel hair. Seeing Papyrus and Frisk engaged in animated conversation about a dog or some other furred Earth animal she has no name for, she pulls out her favorite tome - _72 Uses for Snail Blood_ \- and curls up in her armchair. 

Two hours later, Papyrus and Frisk are outside again. She can hear them whooping and hollering from inside the house (and her walls aren’t exactly thin). Alphys and Undyne have removed Sans from the couch. While he snoozes, equally content on the floor as on the sofa, Alphys nervously shows Undyne her current manga, _Fullmetal Alchemist_ , letting her girlfriend flip animatedly through the pages while she nervously explains the backstory. Undyne seems particularly fascinated by the merits of being incarnated as a walking, talking, fighting suit of metal armor, and loudly debates the merits of getting a blood seal tattoo on the back of her neck.

When Papyrus stumbles back inside, scarf tangled around his arm and a red-nosed Frisk wedged neatly beneath his shoulder, Toriel closes her book. “Anime?” she suggests to the room at large. 

“Heck yeah!” shouts Undyne, pumping her fists so energetically that she dislodges Alphys from the cushions. 

“Here you are,” Toriel says, handing Alphys the remote without batting an eye. Alphys readjusts her glasses and reseats herself.

Once Frisk is settled securely in front of the fire below the television and wrapped in more blankets than Toriel has fingers, Alphys starts the episode. Toriel kicks Sans awake, who blinks one eye blearily at her before sitting up. “Anime start?” he asks, trying to shake incoherency from his face.

“Yes, the anime is starting,” she tells him. 

They get halfway through the introduction sequence before Undyne interrupts. “Oh, Toriel!” Alphys looks like she wants to shush her, but she literally bites her tongue. “Where’s Asgore?”

Halfway through crossing her legs, Toriel freezes. “He has not yet arrived. Let us pause the movie - episode, excuse me. Could you retrieve him for us, Papyrus? He should have only just returned from work, and should be making himself tea in the foyer.” 

Papyrus nods excitedly and bounds out the door. 

“When was he supposed to arrive?” Undyne asks, narrowing her eyes in Toriel’s direction. 

“In several minutes,” she replies crisply, hoping to avoid conflict in front of so many other monsters. This is a point of contention between Toriel and Undyne that both were trying to avoid. Or so Toriel thought. 

Undyne rolls her eyes and presses the issue, to Toriel’s irritation. “How long you gonna stay mad at him, Toriel? That whole thing was like fifty years ago.” 

She can see her child looking at her curiously and strives to keep her voice level. “That _whole thing_ entailed the deaths of several human children.” 

“Yeah, but he regrets it now,” Undyne waves off her protests. “When’re you gonna forgive him?” 

“I will not forgive him easily,” she replies, brushing off her annoyance at Undyne’s flippant attitude. “I may not ever. But as long as we are of the same family, he is welcome to see all of you as he wishes, even if he must come to my house to do so.” She thinks, then adds “As long as he respects my invitations.” 

Undyne lets out a tch and moves to say something else, mouth curled down - Toriel looks upward, as if praying for patience - but thankfully, a knock at the door sounds. 

The door doesn’t rattle violently off the hinges, so Papyrus is not the one knocking. Sans extricates himself from Frisk’s blanket fortress to get the door. 

“Hey, Mr. Majesty King Asgore sir,” he says as the door creaks open. 

“Just Asgore, Sans, please,” responds Asgore. The King is wearing only a t-shirt and some sweatpants, seemingly unaffected by the bitter temperatures outside. He seems to be the only one in the doorway, but then again, his size blocks the outside world from view.

“Of course, Mr. Majesty King Asgore sir.” 

“That is not his name!” bellows Papyrus from behind Asgore’s girth. “His name is Asgore!”

“Yeah, but his name is also Mr. Majesty King Asgore sir. Pretty good title, if I may say so myself.” 

Asgore chuckles and moves into the door, letting Papyrus chastise Sans face-to-face instead of shouting around Asgore’s chest. Frisk turns and waves their tiny hands at Asgore as he lowers himself to the ground near. He’s careful to shift his frame out of anyone’s line of sight. When he has finished sitting, Frisk latches onto one massive arm for a hug. Then they seat themself back onto Sans, who’s appropriated at least three of Frisk’s blankets and lifted the kid into his lap in the minute they spent wrapping their arms around Asgore’s sweater.

Toriel does not pay much attention to the anime, to tell the truth. She prefers books over movies, and besides, she would rather watch her family. On the other side of the room, Alphys and Undyne commandeer the couch. While Alphys watches the anime avidly, Undyne sneaks small glances toward Alphys, alternating between gazing at the stunning animation and her beautiful girlfriend. In front of the fireplace, Papyrus and Sans create a bone-fortress around Frisk. Papyrus has not removed his gaze once from the television. He sits rapt at Frisk’s side, absently holding one small hand in his glove. The animation still holds a wonder for him, as does everything - the way the pictures move, the spark of the characters, their fluidity, the vivid color of the backgrounds. On their other side, Sans rests his chin on top of Frisk’s head. Every couple of scenes he whispers something to them that makes Frisk giggle and muffle their laughter in one hand. Frisk watches the anime intently, immersed completely in the characters and their story. They love the triumphs of the anime, Toriel knows. When the protagonists emerge victorious and when the cast achieves their happy ending.

This, Toriel thinks, is their happy ending.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Monopoly, jailbreaks, and Undyne's new hobby.  
> This snippet went originally between chapters six and seven - essentially, more fluff. However, there are a couple more Chekhov's guns stuck in there, so whether you're here for plot or a toothache, enjoy your stay!

At the end of the week, Toriel announces a Game Night to everyone in their family. Frisk is still tired, and they still take naps on Toriel’s lap sometimes, but they are determined to play Monopoly with their family. Initially, Toriel is reluctant, still worried for Frisk’s safety (certain members of their family can be rowdy) but when Frisk catches wind that she might make them sleep through the Game Night they threaten to invite all of their legions of friends from school to break down the door and free Frisk from Toriel’s tyranny, so Toriel relents, fearing for the safety of the house’s hinges. 

Undyne rearranges Toriel’s couch after suplexing it into her counter and body-slams Papyrus onto the cushions. Frisk finishes setting up the board and cards. They’re the boat, they show Papyrus proudly. Like the Little Engine that Could, which he read to them Wednesday night. Except this engine is on the water. Sans is the dog, which Frisk thinks he picks just to annoy his brother. Undyne chooses the boot - “to kick your butts!” she rationalizes to the room at large - and Papyrus plucks the microphone out of the stack and conducts an impromptu two-minute a capella concert before Undyne gets bored and steals his piece. 

Papyrus has the worst luck at Monopoly, and his dice rolls send him to Jail so many times he creates imaginary inmates with which he can interact. Occasionally Undyne joins him in Jail on purpose, and on the final prison meeting they get bored of Papyrus’s terrible fortune and stage a jailbreak. 

Sans is, true to form, the laziest Monopoly player Frisk has ever had the misfortune of playing with - the effort of counting out his fake money is, apparently, too much effort for him. Despite his brother’s remonstrations, he makes several laps around the game board before caving and buying the least expensive property on the board. Frisk themself already owns most of the properties by that point, because Undyne wastes several turns in Jail and Papyrus spends half the game there. But Frisk never once tries to collect rent. They go broke with some terrible Luck cards but they smile and remove their game piece and entertain their adoptive parents, who watch the game intently, by balancing the Hat game piece on their head and practicing foreign accents they copied off visiting dignitaries. 

Finally, when Sans falls asleep and Undyne gets her ninth “Go to Jail” card, Papyrus calls the game off “for the continued preservation of this lovely house.” He sets about cleaning up - Sans is still sleeping, of course - and Undyne helps eagerly, stacking the cards with her usual vigor and scattering the pieces around the room before sheepishly picking them up and returning them to their game box. 

“Who was the winner?” Toriel asks, watching Undyne place the last piece in the box, and she shrugs.

“No one! Because Sans fell asleep, lazy sentry he is,” she grumbles. 

A book dislodges itself rather mysteriously from a nearby table and lands on Undyne’s foot. She stands up with a yelp. Frisk, curled in their mother’s arms, turns to look at Sans, but aside from a slight upward turn to one side of his smile he appears to be sound asleep. 

Shooting a venomous glance toward his brother and choking down a “nyeh heh heh,” Papyrus bolts upright. “Miss Toriel!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together loudly. “I nearly forgot! You bought marshmallows, did you not?” he asks. 

With a grin, Toriel sets Frisk down on the carpet next to Sans and rests her hands confidently over the flames, letting them crackle higher and higher. Papyrus jumps excitedly and races to the kitchen to retrieve a bag of MTT-Brand Jumbo Sized Extra-Sugary Highly-Caloric Glucose Balls. He speeds back into the living room and sits excitedly behind Toriel, before jumping right back up and racing back into the kitchen to get the sticks he and Undyne had collected from the forest behind Toriel’s house. Curious, Frisk nudges Sans with their big toe. He doesn’t respond. They nudge him again, leaning back on their palms and prodding him with both feet. Suddenly, he reaches out and latches onto their feet with both bony hands, and they squeal with surprise. Sans’s eyes are still closed. They giggle and take off their shoes and stick their feet right under his nose. He pretend-retches, covering his nose with one hand, and they poke his collarbone, singing “Now you’re awake!” 

Sans sits up and mock-glares at the kid. “Guess something particularly smelly must’ve de- _feet_ -ed my dreams.” 

“I can imagine that this would be a terri- _sole_ experience,” Toriel guffaws, flicking her fingers once more toward the bed of embers at the bottom of the fire pit and sitting back, cross-legged. 

Papyrus, who was in the middle of handing a stick to Undyne and Alphys each, whacks his brother on the head reprimandingly before handing it to him. Frisk nods seriously and gives Papyrus a thumbs-up. 

Eventually, Papyrus settles on one side of his brother and Toriel on the other. Alphys and Undyne press closer to the fire, and Alphys spends several minutes warming her hands before finally placing a marshmallow delicately on the end of her stick. At Alphys’s persuasion, Undyne tries to roast her marshmallow properly, twirling her stick vigorously with her head in one hand, before giving up and sticking it directly in the middle of the fire and eating it while still aflame. Alphys shakes her head and offers Undyne her own perfectly-roasted Glucose Ball. 

Papyrus isn’t a huge fan of marshmallows - all those calories make him sluggish, and he must be on his guard! - so while Sans and Toriel elbow each other and snort around, he and Frisk retrieve his racecar set and play NASCAR, warming their feet in front of the flames. Finally, Frisk’s hand slips off their car and they crawl sleepily onto Papyrus’s shoulders and hunker down over his head. 

Papyrus freezes with his orange car still pinched between two fingers. “Sans, help?” Papyrus whisper-yells, shoulders hunched so that Frisk can scrabble more easily up his back. 

Sans looks up and grins hugely. “Guess they need a nap,” he shrugs. 

Papyrus’s expression only grows more worried. “What do I do?” he practically mouths, still not moving. Frisk rests two hands over his forehead and lays their cheek on top of his cranium. 

“Not much you can do. Kid’s got you kidnapped, Pap,” Sans shrugs, and winks at him. Above his eyebrows, Frisk winks back. 

“Sans, that advice is the opposite of useful,” he hisses, doing his best to keep his jaw still. Frisk smiles tiredly down at him and paps his eyebrows, then closes their eyes. 

Toriel pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of Papyrus looking mildly terrified of the small child napping peacefully on his head and saves it as her background in one fluid motion. Sans wrestles the phone out of her hands - she lets him win it - and snickers at the image, then sends it to himself under the title “reverse blackmail”. Papyrus glares nonverbally at them as best he can. 

Finally, Toriel takes pity on Papyrus and drags Sans to sit nearer to him, include him in their conversation. He beams at her and jabs his brother in the side with an elbow. He bats away the elbow and winks.

Papyrus sniffs and looks away, before remembering the human sleeping on his skull. “Frisk is sound asleep,” Toriel explains in response to his concerned look up toward where Frisk snores softly on their head. 

“They sleep quickly,” he observes, trying to roll his eyes back in his head to look at Frisk’s face. 

“Unusually so, yes,” Toriel says, frowning worriedly. 

“How’s school goin’?” Sans asks, eyeing her expression. 

Toriel shakes her head and a smile appears on her face again. “Excellently. I am considering hiring Undyne as an instructor at my school. She has expressed an interest in teaching the children, and the younger children have expressed their enthusiasm with the prospect as well, so...” she shrugs her shoulders, and with a twinkle in her eye says “what could possibly go wrong?”

“Many things,” Papyrus says gravely. “Many things. But I trust your judgment! And I am sure Undyne will not harm them! She may...try to bench press more than she is physically able. But she will not do anything overly harmful!” 

“I trust so, yes.” She nods. “Undyne will demonstrate fencing for the children in several days, to gauge their interest in learning with her. Her reactions to the fight will serve as a makeshift interview.”

“Who will she be fighting?” Papyrus asks her eagerly. “Can I watch?”

“You certainly may. Her opponent will be a local human instructor, a young aspiring woman whose reputed aggression nearly matches Undyne’s own. Many of the student body, I believe, will also be in attendance.”

“She trusts a human to spar with her? Undyne is...not reputed for being entirely favorable of humans!”

“She has decided to shelve her anxieties. A gesture, of sorts. Unless I am mistaken, I believe that Asgore was instrumental in convincing her of the wisdom of this plan.”

“Ah.” Papyrus nods knowingly. “That makes sense! She’s gotten so much more diplomatic since we got to the surface!”

Toriel hums in response despite her personal disagreements - to her, Undyne seems brash as ever. But she’s willing to shelve her doubt for now. Life on the surface, she thinks with a quiet smile, eyeing her child napping on Papyrus’s skull, is full of potential, of new beginnings.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original first chapter of Silhouettes of Gold. 
> 
> Or: Frisk is Determined, then considerably less so, about becoming ambassador.

Frisk creeps down the hallway, padding near the walls where the floorboards won’t squeak and give them away. Already, they can hear faint voices issuing from the grand door in front of them - Toriel’s commanding voice and Undyne’s passionate counterpoint resound down the hallway, making the framed photos on either side of them shiver. Undyne’s voice hits a peak, bristling with aggravation, then something hits the wall with a loud _thud_ and Frisk flattens themself against the wall, straining to hear over the beating of their own heart. 

For several long moments they hold themself stock-still, then keep moving when they hear Asgore’s deep timber swell. Abruptly, their bare feet sweep over the welcoming mat before the double doors to Asgore’s meeting room and they shove a knuckle in their mouth to stifle a giggle. The stiff fibers tickle. 

As soon as Asgore stops speaking Toriel’s voice fills the room, three times louder, and as they approach her voice is audible from behind closed doors, saying “No, I will not let them -”

Frisk soundlessly presses both hands against the door, then lowers themself to their stomach, watching six distinct shadows steal light from beneath the doorframe in quick, agitated motions. “With all due respect, your Majesty, that’s not your choice to make,” Undyne shoots back. Carefully, Frisk presses the flat of their ear against the wood of the door. 

“It is dangerous! We cannot be sure that these people are trustworthy, and I refuse to take that chance with the life of my child.” 

“You gotta let them decide that.” 

“We need them!” Papyrus adds. His orange boots flash frighteningly close to the door. Frisk clamps down on the urge to wriggle away, back down the spiral staircase and through the grand foyer to where their cup of tea still steams. “Without their presence we will have no gracious way to tell the humans that we borrowed the Souls of six of their own!” 

His feet clomp on, and in their place a pink pair of slippers settle right before their face. Toriel continues, voice still heated. “They should not be forced into all of that attention. From what I have seen of human media, their reporters are no less than ill-intentioned mercenaries.” 

“To be ambassador was Frisk’s decision,” Asgore rumbles. Frisk scoots around the slippers as quietly as possible to follow the voice just to the left of the door, out of their range of sight. Toriel’s bare feet stand directly in front of them. They can see Undyne’s metal boots tapping angrily against the floor just across from her. There are scores of scuff marks gouged into the floor in a circle around her feet. “They have already taken upon several responsibilities of ambassador, of negotiating with local dignitaries-” (“of charming them,” mutters Undyne, a reluctant grin hiding in her voice) “- of interacting with citizens, influencing public opinion. However, I know that Frisk - as do you, Toriel - wishes to do more, and I believe we should let them. They are, after all, the future of humans and monsters.” 

“They are more than the future of human monsters, they are my child and our dear friend!” Toriel snaps. “Yes, they are important to our political stance, but we do not need to risk their safety -”

“That’s not your choice -"

“I think w-we should, uh, ask F-Frisk,” Alphys says quietly, but her voice is cut off -

“They are prone to danger as it is, falling down a huge mountain -”

There’s a shifting of fabric in front of them. The slippers position themselves once again directly in front of their line of sight. Then a pair of black shorts adorned with bones criss-cross themselves in a sitting position, leaning on the very door panel against which Frisk rests their forehead. “Heya,” says a voice. “All this botherin’ you?”

Frisk doesn’t say anything. In the background, the argument continues, with Toriel’s voice growing louder and louder. Their blood rushes through their ears and their heart thuds against their ribs like a bass drum. But they tap the floor twice, a distinct sharp pattern against the hardwood floor. The argument nearly swallows the sound. _No._

“Alrighty, pal,” the voice says, though it sounds skeptical. “Well, you wanna say somethin’?”

They hesitate, then tap once on the floor. _Yes._

The black shorts disappear from view, then the slippers move just outside the frame of the door. Frisk jumps to their feet and places both hands on the doorknob. 

“Hey,” calls the voice, cutting somehow through the pandemonium. The conversation lulls, and into the lull Sans says “How ‘bout we let the kid talk for themself?”

Taking this as their cue, Frisk shoves the doors open with all of their strength - the doors in Asgore’s palace are _heavy_ \- and remind themself to lift their chin before striding in. “I want to help,” they announce to the room. 

“My child?” Toriel’s voice asks, and it's so broken, scared, that Frisk suddenly can't maintain eye contact. Instead they stare straight forward at the clock hanging on the opposite wall, glistening above the chair at the head of the table. Even though they’ve sat in this very room countless times, swinging their feet on that very chair, they never took time to appreciate that clock. It’s a nice clock, all gold-lined with swirly minute hands and gleaming impressively against the purple paint. 

“I’m gonna help you guys with the press,” they say firmly. Frisk keeps their eyes fixed on the clock. Public speaking...it’s not their strong suit. 

“But it is dangerous," Toriel protests. 

Frisk forces their eyes toward Toriel and smiles reassuringly. “‘s okay, Mom. I wanna be there for people.”

“You cannot help everyone,” she says reluctantly, “however hard you may try. You will lose yourself in the attempt. Sometimes, my child, you must put yourself first.” 

“This isn’t just about me, Mom. If I can help - and I know I can - then I gotta try.” 

Toriel takes another step forward. If they wanted to, Frisk could touch her hands with their own. “I know that you do not like to speak in front of cameras, my child. It is one thing to persuade a single person, yet another to speak to an entire country.” 

Frisk fidgets awkwardly, the blind bravado that propelled them into the room evaporating in the face of that thought. “That’s true,” they concede. Then they look directly at their mother, face set. “But I don’t like people hating my family even more than I don’t like cameras.” They stick out their tongue. 

“What if you cannot convince them?”

“Then I’ll keep trying until I can.” 

“Some problems cannot be solved through words and kindness,” Toriel tells them gently, stumbling over her words as if she’s not sure she wants them to leave her mouth. 

Flowey had told them the same thing. They shake their head stubbornly. “I haven’t found one yet.” 

Toriel studies their expression for a long second, then sighs deeply. She reaches out and takes Frisk’s hands, letting them wrap their entire palm around her forefinger. “I know that face. I see that I cannot dissuade you, my child. I will support you, so long as you acknowledge that there exists f-risk in this endeavor.” 

Behind them, Sans snorts into his hand. Frisk takes a bit longer to register the pun - Toriel had delivered it with such a stone face and somber tone - then bursts out laughing. Undyne makes a noise like she’d been stepped on. 

“Your Majesty?” Papyrus asks, befuddled. A smile creeps upon Toriel’s face as well. 

“I cannot stop them,” Toriel shrugs to the room in general. “I can only help them.” 

Undyne and Asgore trade glances. “Then we are agreed!” Papyrus announces to the room, looking quite relieved to see the tension draining from his friends’ faces. Frisk isn’t sure if they should rejoice or hide. 

 

There’s always at least one reporter loitering around Asgore’s castle. So to set up a nationally-televised press conference, all the King has to do is set foot outside his house right after lunch break, when their representatives start peering through his windows and shoving hopeful questionnaires under his door. He steps outside, and five minutes later walks back inside with bittersweet victory scrawled all over his face. 

They decide to leave Papyrus’s gaudy “Flame-o!!!” racecar in the garage, a decision which Papyrus does not entirely understand (“flames make everything so much cooler!”) but respects anyway. Instead, Toriel summons a limousine. Papyrus bounds in first, dragging his brother by one arm, bubbling about the tinted windows and the ice with human beer bottles where cupholders normally sit. Frisk squeezes themself between their mother and Sans while Asgore slides into the front seat. 

Frisk passes most of the car ride nervously watching the burgeoning city flash by through the windows. In one ear, they hear their own brain panicking about spotlights and plastic grins. In the other, Toriel delivers well-timed puns while Papyrus rambles excitedly about the wonders of cinema - he attended a showing last weekend with Undyne, during which they discovered that throwing popcorn, candies and spears at the movie screen is considered an unacceptable disruption. Frisk tries to tune him out, his volume just adds to the anxious static already buzzing in their skull, and preoccupy themself by fidgeting with their suit. The pants itch terribly, but it beats the dress they wore to the last “diplomatic old man meeting.” That old silk abomination turned out to be three sizes too large for them and decided to wrap itself around their ankles with every stirring breeze like a particularly mischievous jump rope.  
(Frisk borrowed this suit from Asgore. While waiting for the limousine and picking nervously at their pockets, Frisk discovered a doodle of a flower nestled behind one of the buttons. Only then do they wonder why Asgore would own a suit so perfectly tailored to their size.) 

The thirty-minute ride to the conference drags for ages. Frisk sinks down next to Sans as low as they can go without rendering their seatbelt useless. He glances at them, then to Papyrus, who has not halted his running awestruck commentary on the lights and sounds of human civilization since they entered the car twenty minutes ago. “You all right, kid?” Sans asks, tapping a half-empty mustard bottle lightly on their head. Some of the condiment sprays out of the bottle. Several drops spewed toward their head are mysteriously stopped in midair. 

Frisk swallows, hard, and has difficulty conjuring enough saliva to coat their throat. “‘m nervous.” 

Sans grunts. “You don’t gotta worry, buddo. Just go out there and show ‘em your stellar personality.”

“Speak to them as you would speak to your friends,” Toriel advises them quietly.

They don’t look convinced. “Hard to in front of all the cameras.” Frisk frowns deeper and crosses their arms over their chest. The shoulderpads itch and cling to their sleeves uncomfortably. They’re already repressing the urge to hold onto something - Papyrus’s scarf, Sans’s jacket, Toriel’s robe - and never let go. They wish Mettaton would sell MTT-Brand Self-Confidence in the same abundance he sells lamps and self-cleaning mops. 

Sans watches them dip their head lower and lower and tries again. “Look, kid, I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it for you. You’re a smart cookie. You know you gotta do a bit of blabbing in front of all that paparazzi.” 

They shrug and try not to look dispirited. Sans switches tactics and grabs their chin, lightly, forcing them to stop staring at the dull gray limousine carpet and connect their eyes with his instead. “But hey. I believe in you,” he tells them quietly. “We all do. You got this, kiddo.” 

He lets go of their chin and they smile weakly at him, trying to say thank you without words. Sans watches them sit up straighter and look out the window, then nods like he understands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original second chapter of Silhouettes of Gold. 
> 
> Or: the Monster Fam goes to a press conference and things swim directly upstream without a paddle, until Papyrus manufactures a substitute. He's the best mascot. Really.

“Mr. Asgore, where did all of these monsters come from?” 

“Can you tell us where you lived before emerging onto the surface?” 

“What changed to bring everyone aboveground?”

“How did you keep humanity unaware of monsters for so long?”

The camera lights are blinding. Even before Frisk steps out of the car, the media descends on their door, clamoring to ask questions through the walls, pressing lenses against the tinted windows. Sans disappears from the inside of the van before anyone realizes he was there to miss. 

Smiling as though she were delighted to be in attendance, Toriel levers the door open and holds it for Asgore, Papyrus and Frisk to climb out, all while juggling inane questions (what is your favorite drink, Queen Toriel? What are your hobbies? Do you wear perfume? How do you wear flip-flops with such large toes?). Frisk resists the urge to shield their eyes with their hands and gives the world a strained smile, hoping that their expression looks convincing and not like the uncomfortable grimace they’re feeling. As soon as Frisk steps out of the car, Toriel grabs their hand and follows Asgore as he carves a path through the crowd, calling apologies and polite requests for space as he moves toward the intimidating Town Hall. 

The frame around the doors is high and vaulted. The room they enter is incredibly spacious, with a ceiling that arches gracefully above their heads and windows that let starlight filter down and sparkle across tiled, manicured floors. The table that sits in the center of the room is intricately carved and impeccably polished, with four chairs already circling the table. The first half of the table points toward a marble wall, with water cascading down, filled with stones of gray-white hue; around the second half cluster cameras from every media outlet within a five mile radius. From the station with which Asgore originally arranged the outing, there are ten cameras, each capturing his face at a different angle. There’s a thin band of red tape that divides media employees and curious general public toward the back of the room.

Frisk drinks in their surroundings anxiously. There are cameras _everywhere_ , there’s even one hanging above their head that swings to track their movements, and it’s so _loud_ , adult humans of all shapes and sizes stare at camera lenses and gesture toward Asgore and Toriel with either a smile or a stone-set frown. 

“Good evening,” Asgore says once everyone seats themselves. From the head of the table, his deep voice resonates powerfully throughout the room. “First and foremost, many thanks to you for agreeing to spread our story. We appreciate your effort in this regard. During this conference, I will recount in unprecedented detail the story of our people; afterward, we will open the floor to any questions you may still have.” 

Back in Asgore’s castle, Alphys prods Undyne in the shoulder, and they close out their interactive dating simulation. Mettaton, with one arm draped around Napstablook, sprawls the rest of his limbs carelessly over the entirety of Asgore’s couch. He’s offered a running commentary since the very beginning of the broadcast, even before Toriel stepped out of the car, criticizing makeup and stage lighting and Asgore’s cape with _those_ shoulder pads, oh dear. Monster Kid perches agilely on one of the armrests, surrounded by several Whimsuns, a Froggit and a line of Moldsmals squelching peacefully in front of the television. In the back of the room gleam a pair of old, canny turtle eyes. 

Outside the palace, in apartments speckled around the city, the humans glue their eyes similarly to their television sets - humans with white hair or brown, humans with blue eyes or red, humans of all shapes and sizes sit themselves on creaky wooden chairs or plush velvet futons and let Asgore’s voice reverberate around their rooms.

“Thousands of years ago,” Asgore’s voice rumbles in his deep, slow voice, “humans and monsters lived in peace. Collaboration pervaded our lands. Our warriors mediated your conflicts, and yours mediated ours. Your greatest scientists aided ours, and together, we created wonderful things. The doors of your kind were as well open to monsters as ours were to yours. We were, for this happy time, brothers and friends in heart and soul. 

“Then came the war.” Asgore folds his hands over the table. His eyes, which trod slowly from camera to camera, turn down at the corners tiredly. “A human, unwilling to uphold the harmony of our land, struck down a member of the noble family - my great-grandfather.” Asgore clears his throat. “My grandfather retaliated. War broke out among humans and monsters. The fighting tore friends from friends, family from family. Our species separated until no compassion remained between us.

“In this time, humans possessed magic. Seven of the greatest sorcerers of this ancient race banished monsters underground, sealing our kind below, beneath a barrier that could only be crossed by a being holding the power of seven human souls.”

Asgore takes a deep breath and scrubs at his face, then passes the gesture off as straightening his crown. “After the death of my son, I...believed that no human possessed the capacity for good. Then my viewpoint was radically altered. Then I encountered Frisk.” 

Asgore looks away from the cameras to turn an encouraging gaze on Frisk. They feel their modest number of years pressing on their shoulders. Their stomach twists itself into knots, dragging their intestines and tongue down with it. How can they possibly inspire an entire race to forgive another? They are only one small, small child. “Hi,” they manage, waving trepidatiously at the cameras. 

Frisk takes another deep breath and ignores the spotlights shining on their face. Like talking to the local commissioner, a kind old man fond of Toriel’s scones, they remind themself. Like talking to an old friend. “My name is Frisk. I fell into the Underground from Mt. Ebott. The first monster I met was Toriel.” Frisk nods toward Toriel, even though she needs no introduction. She smiles gently at the camera, that same mothering smile that endeared her to her friends, her students and even her students’ parents. For a fanciful moment, Frisk imagines their mother’s soul reaching out to the humans and urging them, kindly, to hear and to listen. 

“Toriel guided me through the Ruins. She offered me a new home. She told me I could stay with her forever, if I wanted. Toriel would have been the best mother. She made me butterscotch pie, and had toys and clothes and she even made me a curriculum with an entire chapter on vegetative preservation!

“But I couldn’t stay. I wanted to return home. Toriel told me that the barrier was within the castle far away, so I left. I have always been a stubborn child,” they grin quietly. Below the table, their hands fidget and form words, the same motion with which they would tell stories at recess. 

“I met Papyrus shortly after I left,” Frisk says next, beaming at the skeleton, who lets out a soft “Wowie!!” at being mentioned by name. They mentally decide to omit their fight with Toriel and encounter with Sans, whose pinprick eyes are glowing encouragingly in their direction from his position sandwiched tightly between two tripodal cameras. Citizens aren’t technically supposed to be that close to the table, but with Sans’s hoodie he could easily be an ill-dressed technician. “Papyrus challenged me with some intellectual puzzles! He is a great puzzle-maker. He helped me in Snowdin, the first town I passed through. I went through Waterfall and met some more friends, and then through Hotland, which was really, well, hot. But Doctor Alphys helped me out so it wasn’t too bad, then I stayed overnight at the Mettaton hotel, which you should check out if you get the chance,” they joke nervously. The joke falls a little flat, but it does earn some short chuckles. 

Frisk mentally decides to skip the next, well, half of their story. They probably wouldn’t take kindly to the idea of Mettaton or Muffet or Asgore fighting their human child with murderous intent. “Then I made it to the castle and met Asgore. The first thing he did when he met me was offer to share some tea. He grew a huge garden underground.” 

They open their mouth to continue. Then, panicking, they realize that the next part cannot be summarized without expressly explaining Asgore’s intent to kill...and the previous six souls the King had collected. They struggle to maintain a calm face and curl their fingers into the hem of their suit-pants. Toriel hardly needs to glance at Frisk’s expression in the awkward silence before she kicks Asgore sharply under the table. 

Without hesitation, Asgore resumes the story. He calmly walks the media through his collection of the previous six souls, of his fight with Frisk, of Toriel’s intervention, of the shattering of the barrier. He speaks of the sorrow with which he ruled the Underground, a leader of a desperate and hopeless people. With his every word, the oppressive crowd of humans and microphones and lights and cameras draws closer and closer to his face. Frisk breathes deeply, letting Asgore’s voice soothe their dread. 

“We do not forget easily, and we remember the times, thousands of years ago, when our races flourished equally in the others’ company. We do not want to harm you. As a species we bear you no ill will. With this story, I hope that we can reconcile in this peace once more.”

As he finishes, they are silent. For several moments, the silence holds. Then it does not. 

“You killed six humans? Six _children_?” one reporter shouts, disgusted.

“How do you expect us to believe our ancestors erased an entire race from our history books?” another yells. 

“How can you call this _your_ land with our blood spilled upon it?”

“Please!” Asgore calls into the crowd, repeating himself desperately, trying to regain order. “Please, allow us to explain -”

But at each utterance of the word “children,” he only retreats farther and farther beneath the shadow cast by his crown. His plea only incites the crowd to swell further. “You had your chance to explain everything -“

“You took our _children_ -” 

“- should have finished the job -” 

“- should’ve _known_ we couldn’t trust them!”

Toriel tries to lend her voice, rising to her feet, but their scorn only shifts toward her, and now they are attacking her - she’s a teacher, she was a friend, how could she do such a terrible thing? How could she condone murder? How could they trust her now with their children, her students?

Frisk closes their eyes and focuses on quelling the shivers that overtake their body, trying to envelop themself in a mantra of calm. They’d been so hopeful, so stupidly naive, thinking that humans could _ever_ understand -

“Humans!!” Papyrus yells. No one listens, so he stands on his chair and tries again. The movement sends his scarf flowing against his shoulders, and where the spotlight buried shadows in Asgore’s face it only reflects the cheery optimism shining in Papyrus’s. “I apologize for the interruption of your questions! But I, the great Papyrus, have something to say!” 

The room falls quiet at the appearance of this new speaker. Cameras and microphones swing toward the skeleton. Toward the back, several humans pack up and leave. Others spit on the plants, calling atrocious names toward the front. 

Papyrus’s smile never falters. “Back Underground, it was a tradition to greet all humans with puzzles. Although monsters live for a long time, we never gave up on you! In fact, I still make puzzles to entertain the small humans in my neighborhood. I have found that many human children enjoy puzzles, just like Frisk does. And Miss Toriel will bake any human butterscotch pie and King Asgore will share gardening tips with anyone! I know because he has shared so many with me, you see. And I have discovered that I am not great at gardening, even though I am great at many other things!”

Now confident that the attention in the room is focused on him, Papyrus steps down from his chair and stands on the floor instead, his scarf resting for a brief moment on Frisk’s shoulder. His voice turns serious. It’s an unsettling change from his normal demeanor. “Underground, we had lost hope that our two races could reconcile. We remembered the war more than we wished. The Underground was littered with scars. There were so many problems, and we could not see a way to fix them. But the souls of monsters are made of compassion and hope. We did not give up!

“It is true that, for a while, we could not believe that humans were good. Why, then, would we be confined without sunlight, fresh air, clean water? Why were we trapped? But then we met Frisk! And we realized that not all humans are bad and some are quite amazing, just like monsters. Maybe human Souls really are just compassion and hope too!” 

Papyrus smiles at the cameras, the smile he bestows on small children and reluctant officials. It floods the lenses, hovering around his face like so many wasps, with reassurance. “We all make mistakes,” he acknowledges. “I have made mistakes. My brother has made mistakes. Frisk has made mistakes, I am sure, though I have not seen them yet!”

A hushed awe trails behind his words, through all those television screens on ratty old couches or velvet futons.

“Yes, our King has made mistakes. One time, he had a human child, did you know? The first human that fell down, I think. They wanted to break the barrier, like Frisk, but they could not, and were killed. By humans.” Papyrus’s smile falters a bit, and he folds his hands behind his back. From Frisk’s vantage point, they can see his gloves trembling slightly. They want to reach out and pat his knee. 

“I do not mean to say that...that taking the souls was correct. But I believe in our King. I believe in everyone here!” Papyrus beams at the camera. “I do not fully understand how this broadcasting works, but if you are listening, all humans, then I believe in you too!

“Everyone has the power to be a great person if they try. And I know humans are particularly determined! I believe that, if we want to, we can be great friends! I would like to be friends with all of you. I believe in you, every single human that is watching this right now!” He gives a short little bow, then waves eagerly at the camera. “Thank you!!”

With a huge grin, Papyrus sits back down and looks eagerly at the reporters. Hundreds of cameras capture his expression, and several reporters bend over their microphones to document their reactions. Frisk surveys the adults in the room - a glistening eye there, a quiet handkerchief to their left. Even Asgore smiles at that, a tiny hesitant curve that sneaks across his face. Some of the men who spit are loitering uncomfortably against the back wall, arms crossed over their chest. Papyrus’s speech shamed the rest into leaving. 

No one quite seems to know what to say. Then Asgore clears his throat quietly and says, “I cannot fully justify my actions.” Despite his quiet tone, his sonorous voice draws the attention of everyone, from the circling reporters to the ivy flowering in the back, which tilt its leafy heads toward his voice like sunlight. Asgore’s eyes are warm. “But I can hope that, through my own experiences, through my friends and through my family, I can redeem myself. The process of peace will be a difficult journey. But I believe, as does my family, that we can succeed.”

He closes his mouth, a definitive sign that his speech is over. From his side, Toriel nods at him, once. Her eyes are glistening, but she does not move to wipe them. 

The room is suddenly full of sweating media professionals and fidgeting sound amateurs fiddling with dials. Several press their fingers to their ears, and bewildered voices crackle through static-packed connections. 

“We hear your house is huge?” one brave soul ventures into the silence. From the back of the crowd, she waves her microphone in the air. “What does that say about your governing policy?”

Asgore’s eyes light up. “Ah, yes!” he responds eagerly, waving the reporter forward. The crowd parts reluctantly and she approaches the table with timid footsteps. “The house is not solely mine. I share this abode with members of my kind who require different environments to live. Some subspecies of monster require, for example, arid heat at all times of day, and a dear friend of mine - Dr. Alphys - created rooms inside the house which could accommodate all of us.” Asgore’s voice hushes. “We were quite eager to see the surface. The stars are beautiful here.” 

The reporter, whose jaw lays slack, scratches her pen hurriedly across her pocket notebook. After she subsides, ten more eager microphones take her place, the dams of trepidation well and truly broken. For the next hour, Asgore and Toriel answer mouthful upon mouthful of questions, ranging from the derisive and insulting to the hopeful and optimistic. 

Then the questions run out. Asgore fills the last five minutes shaking each reporter by hand. Cameras zoom in on the family’s faces for a closing shot, and the following day newspapers and blogs alike brand their headlines with Frisk’s and Papyrus’s grin.


End file.
